


The Prose Merlin

by justawordwright



Series: Tales from the rusted desert [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, High Noon Over Camelot - The Mechanisms (Album), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Gen, I lampshade fandom questions a bit, Mechs concert typical heckling, Mechs typical drinking - Freeform, Merlin backstory, Temporary Character Death, The Mechanisms-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justawordwright/pseuds/justawordwright
Summary: An unexpected gig leads to some more pointed heckling than the Mechanisms have had in a while. This leads to another story being told - the story of Merlin, and how he came to be known as the Hanged Man.
Series: Tales from the rusted desert [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970239
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76





	The Prose Merlin

**Author's Note:**

> (edits - minor spag, cleanup of the ending)

The last thrums of the guitars fade out as Jonny leans forward, his mic brushing against his lips. “The end,” he whispers, bowing to the spattered applause of the crowd. It’s a raucous mix of enthusiastic and disinterested, an unplanned gig in what passes for the watering hole of the way-station they’ve found themselves refuelling in. None of them had wanted to stop, but a scuffle with a couple of Vor’cha-class Attack Cruisers had meant a punctured fuel tank and torn solar sail, and even Nastya couldn’t make the repairs quick enough to avoid a near-total fuel dump. So, an unscheduled fuel stop, and orders not to destroy the station until the ship was restocked from Ashes. That meant bringing the instruments rather than the guns, and they’d persuaded the barkeep to let them play. Most of the patrons had humoured the surprise entertainment at least, and some of them had clearly enjoyed it, patting at eyes with handkerchiefs. The tragedy of Fort Galfridian always got them going.

Jonny grins at the band behind him, starting the next bit of his patter as they retune or swap instruments and grab a quick swig of water or beer in the break. He loves going out on ‘Drunk Space Pirate’, one last high on the crowd's adoration and energy. He’s already starting to hum the opening bars under his breath, too quiet for the mic, as Tim itches at the strings of his guitar, waiting for his cue when a Patron at the back of the bar stands up.

“Oi. He’s supposed to be Merlin right?” The man slurs his words, his hand wavering as he gestures with a spilling pint glass towards Brian at Jonny’s right. “You said he’s called Brian! How’d they get Merlin out of that?”

There’s a murmuring across the bar stools, the others nodding.

“Does it matter?” Jonny snaps, losing the flow of the not-quite-yet-playing-music that he’d been swaying to. “Come on, we’ve got your encore! Don’t you want to hear that?” 

The Patron has started to get the crowd behind him though, Jonny feels his control of them slipping. They’re no longer hanging onto his every word. The Patron opens his mouth again. “And isn’t he supposed to be in the sun? Avalon or whatever? How’s he here now? Or did you just make everything up?”

Jonny’s hand drives towards his holster, fingertips brushing the metal. “We’ve just spent almost a full tick entertaining you! And now you're being ungrateful and criticising us?” Metal clears leather.

The shot rings out through the bar. Jonny drops to the floor, a thin circle of red appearing above each ear.

Brian holsters his own gun, shrugging to the rest of the band. “Ashes said no killing people here,” he nods to the quartermaster who dips their head in acknowledgement back. The crowd is quiet, it's not rare to see someone shot in a place like this, but they’re unused to it being quiet and so sudden between companions. There’s usually an argument first, but the metal man is just grinning at them as the blood of his friend pools around his feet. “Don’t worry, he’ll be better soon,” he says, and Jonny even groans to accentuate his point.

The frontman groans again, then slowly pushes himself upright, red streaking down his still-white face. The crowd gasps, glasses dropping out of hands. A couple of them start stumbling backwards, hands racing frantically towards their own guns. The air is heavy as they wait to see who will be the first to break, to kick off the fight they can feel crawling up out of the pits of their stomachs. They don’t want to fight whatever these things are, but they feel like they might have to. Jonny ignores them, asking for a rag to clean his face.

The crowd is still silent. The tension almost sings.

Tim rolls his eyes, or he would if he could, the digital ones don’t exactly move the same way organics do, but its close enough from his point of view, and shrugs for the benefit of everyone else. “Didn’t you hear Brian? We’re not allowed to kill you.” He purses his lips, exchanging glances with Ashes. “At least not yet. You've got a couple of hours, probably.”

The crowd deflates, with some scattered nervous chuckles. Most of them sit down, though a few race out of the door. They’re still not comfortable though, nowhere near enough to get a decent kick out of them singing along to their encore song. Tim sighs and looks at his First Mate who’s finishing wiping his ears out. “Why don’t you tell them another story Jonny? Get them comfortable again.”

Brian nods. “How about the story of Merlin, given they seem to want to hear that one?”

Jonny looks around the rest of the band, Ashes shrugging, Marius nodding, his violin back under his chin ready for accompaniment, Raph sighing but shuffling new sheet music into place, while the Toy Soldier will go along with whatever he decides. Jonny lifts the mic up again. “Fine”

“It happens something like this. Once upon a time, there was a starfaring civilisation who decided to build a station of unparalleled size and power, in close orbit to their star, Avalon. Only the station, known as Fort Galfridian, was never completed, the work crews stranded upon it as the Rhufeinig Empire collapsed in on itself. Alone and trapped, they turned on themselves, sibling pitted against sibling, parent against child as each and every one of them scrambled to just survive. To live and die, live and die in an eternal cycle that rolled faster and faster the longer it went on. Decades passed, generations born into the now rusting ship without ever knowing the promise of shining metal their forefathers had been given and built, and to this world came a wandering traveller. A man of metal and cog, a banjo strapped to his back and two drumsticks in his hat. Brian. Our pilot.”

Jonny gestures at the man in question who dips his head in acknowledgement, plucking a jaunty tune out of the strings of his banjo. Jonny rolls his eyes. “Remind me why you were there?”

“The ship needed a new Galilian-Eistienian-Transformer. Rhufeinig used to make excellent ones, but once they – well, Fort Galfridean was the last stock of them.”

“Right. Of course.

“Well, the metal man travelled through each of the levels, never stopping long but always pausing to swap a tale or two wherever he found people willing to listen. Offer some advice occasionally or help the sick and the poorly. There were rumours he could tell the future, little hints to those who were hungry and down on their luck and just needed a little nudge in the right direction. People whose fortunes changed as the metal man passed through their homes, kindness repaid in food and water pouring into their coffers. No one could ever name someone who they knew had benefited though, it was always someone a town over widdershins or a level down. But rumour flies as fire and is fanned in the heat of the station until all throughout Fort Galfridian the metal man and his prophecies are known. No matter that whenever someone finds him and asks for one, he denies them.

“And this is the way the world is when the metal man wanders into Camelot.

“Now see, Camelot is a special town, the old control centre of the station it had blazed with light and power when the station had been operational, but as memories fade and rust grows, magnets failing, the power drifts, flowing away on the red breeze. Those left cling to what they can, dreams of re-conquest and dominance spurring them on to arm and fortify their tiny speck of life until they bristle with weapons and resentment. Their latest project is a fully integrated automatic defence system, programmed to gun down all who might approach with ill intent.

“There is only one issue - that the code snakes and slithers, and the muzzles turn inwards.

“Thankfully for them, there are no bullets loaded during that first testing and Camelot survives with the only thing bullet-ridden being their pride, but no matter how many programmers Guorthigirn throws at the problem none can work out why it happens so. He is just about ready to give up on the plan when the metal man walks into town.

“At Guorthigirn's orders the man is brought to Camelot's court. Riches are offered, jewels and gems like none have seen outside the coffers of Camelot, a pair of golden dragons that dance and writhe in their mechanisms. Rare delicacies of food and drink, venison and rice and wine. Guorthigirn offers a fine drinking horn and a relic rifle, whose bullets are said to follow their targets unerringly for miles until they plunge into flesh, no matter how they try to run. Thirteen treasures Guorthigirn offers, for the metal man's insight as to why Dinas Emrys falls.

“The metal man shrugs off the offers, and looks into the systems out of sheer curiosity. And he laughs, for he finds Guorthigirn's problem quickly - a pair of computer worms named Aelenge and Ambrius, left by the mercenary Hengest who Guorthigirn had hired and then spurned.

“Tells Guorthigirn he has no interest in spurning on Camelot's expansionist plans.”

“Right on it too,” Tim cuts in. “That guy sounds like he was a right wanker from the stories Brian tells. Wasn’t he the one that thought killing a kid would solve all his problem?”

“We’ve met worse,” Jonny takes over again. “Anyway,

“The laughter and refusal of this mocking metal man is too much for Guorthigirn, and he orders him strung up, a gallows constructed of hefty steel and built to take the robot.”

“Built by the engineer Nymenche,” Brian smiles softly. “I actually taught her a couple of things, and set her up with her job in Camelot. That was before the entire Guorthigirn thing, but can’t begrudge it. She was doing her job, and I had committed treason. You have to respect that.”

“Some time,” Jonny huffs, “we’ll actually work out which setting you were on the entire time you were there. Because I for one, cannot imagine you just letting them do these things to you. Not you, you who won’t even listen to your Captain, but would rather take orders from our Engineer. The number of times I’ve told you to do something, and you’ve not…”

“The story, _First Mate,”_ Brian grins and Jonny sniffs, flustered.

_“Anyway,_

“There he hangs, the man of metal, a noose of steel around his neck, a wrench in his gears, as the years pass and the rust creeps across his frame. Guorthigirn dies, slain by Hengist as he visits Teifi, three days ride widdershins, the town his funeral pyre. Few mention the way the metal man smiles as the news reaches him, fewer still talk of the visits Guorthigirn's wife Rowenne made to the gallows in the nights before Guorthigirn left. None mention the way Rowenne vanishes the day after, returned to her father. Not to the metal man himself, at least.

“Camelot survives the ensuing attack, just. It is still enough to topple them though, crush any ideal they had of ruling. Their new leader, Brittu, scrambles for alliances and sees each and every one of them spurned. Camelot falls, and they watch as the lands around them rise. Gorre, Garlot, Carados and Estranggmore and a hundred more little domains. Brittu and his followers and his antecedents watch the lights around them burn bright as Camelot merely flickers.

“Decades, generations, centuries. Power turns, and the Water Lords rise, the Barons of the hydroponics and agri-hubs whose lands are ripe with the necessities of life, doled out carefully to their followers. Guorthigirn had called himself Consul, a band of gold around his head, by the time Uther kills Vortigern, avenging his siblings and their father, all there is left to snatch from the slowly cooling body is a small tin star, Camelot's head a mere Sheriff like every other town around them.

“All this time, the metal man has hung from the gallows in Camelot's town square, collecting rust and cobwebs and slowly degrading. At times, he has been somewhat of a novelty, a fairground fortune-teller for the inhabitants of the red wastes. Merlin they call him, reading letters into the rusted scratches across his chest, chipped and corroded and twisted away from the neat print that once lay there. Merlin, painted gaily with a pointed hat on his head and Blaise selling tickets for his prophecies. The old man is good enough company that the metal man humours him, but the jaws of his mouth snap shut when eventually time takes its toll on his companion. The paint flakes away, and the memories of the prophecies of Merlin once again fade, the metal man now considered no more than an odd sculpture.”

“I don’t know how you could stand it, Brian? Treated like a toy,” Tim says, “I’d have been down in two days and shot the lot of them.”

“Well, it wasn’t you, and Blaise was very nice. Not many people came to talk to me you know, and most wouldn’t listen.”

Jonny groans. “The _story.”_

Tim and Brian wince. “Sorry.”

“Merlin is just a tin shell, dead, and quiet, and gone. At least that is how it seems to the townsfolk of Camelot, but keep your ear to the right place, and Merlin has never stopped speaking. He is just careful about those he marks with his words. There is no other explanation for how the crows and blackbirds that roost in the gallows sound quite so articulate, the way they follow those who thirst for power. For those in the know, it is said you can predict the next Sheriff by the way Merlin’s crows flock to them. They watch, they follow, and one night they may just come calling.

_“Come. Come. The Hanged Man talks. Come. Come. The Hanged Man talks to you. Come._

“Power changes quickly after those nights. Custennin. Aurelia. Uther. Lavinia… Each and every one Merlin raises, finding their ambition and fanning it strong. Half of them he brings crashing down again when they disagree with his plans, his morals. Merlin’s wroth is quick, and vicious, a new champion chosen and crowned.

“Arthur.

“Arthur, the boy, the son of Uther who burns so with a dream of a town secure, somewhere peace can live, can prosper. He comes to Merlin, his father’s name on his lips and a request for help. Humble, alone, lost in a world of bandits and selfishness. Merlin points him to his weapons, points him to the walls he must build, and Arthur grows. Takes out Nimue, takes out the Stones. Fights off the Twelve Bandit Kings. Stabilises Camelot.

“Loses his family.

“And well, you’ve heard this bit of the story haven’t you?

“Arthur hardens. Withdraws. Lancelot and Gwenevere try to take up the slack, but it is of no use. The world rages, and Arthur watches, and misses as his son comes home, Mordred who dreams even more than Arthur had done himself. But Arthur is cold, unlistening, uncaring and none of Merlin’s words can break the skin that Arthur has built for himself of Camelot’s metal.

“Fire and gunpowder, and Galahad to light that spark, to send Arthur away, and Mordred gambling with Camelot and Annwn drawn against each other. That is all it takes.

“Merlin watches, as he is ignored. As the scorpion crawls forward. As the Captain is slain, the GRAIL seized. As the Saxon draws her knife. As the Pendragon’s bonds strain. As Gawain’s fingers thumb the trigger.

“As Fort Galfridian bleeds.

“Mordred stumbles into the Captain’s chair, bullets flying. The world burns.

“Nearly twenty-thousand lives plunge into the sun, vanishing near instantly. They are gone before they even reach it, truly, vaporised in the heat as the metal of the ship melts and then boils away. There is barely time for them to wonder why the noon heat grows so, so fast, so rapid, to scream as it blisters, before it is all gone.

“Well, almost twenty-thousand, minus two. Arthur as you’ve heard is sent out into the stars, asleep in his life pod. A single regret from Mordred, or a little last bit of hope. Either way, he’s out there somewhere, dreaming of loss and family and love.

“Merlin – Brian – yes he did end up in the sun, but well you’ve seen us. Death is more of an inconvenience for us then it is you, so living in a star was a difficult but not fatal prospect for him. And while we don’t need the incompetent bag of brass, we did eventually notice he’d not been around after a while.”

“After almost a century in the sun,” Brian says flatly.

“Yes well,” Jonny flips him off, “we do have a sentient spaceship, a pilot isn’t always a necessity. And we did notice. And come looking. Ungrateful. You could thank me.”

“Thank you? Tim says you’d have been happy to leave me in there until it went super-nova. If it wasn’t for him and Ashes, I’d have been in there millennia! You ever spent time in a sun? It gets a little hot around the collar. Until you don’t have a collar, then its just very hot!”

“You’re made of metal, you shouldn’t be able to feel a thing.”

“What, like you won’t feel this bullet?”

“You just shot me in the knee!”

“I’ll shoot you somewhere worse next.”

“You won’t have chance!”

“Jonny, I told you no gunfights. We actually need to stay here overnight.”

“Too late Ashes – he’s not getting away with it this time!”

“Tim! Don’t join in!”

“If Jonny’s shooting people, then I am too!”

“Fine. I give up. Nastya should have gotten enough fuel onboard to make it to the next fuel-stop. Let’s bring this place down. I’ve got a couple of boxes of matches around somewhere.”

(The station burns, slowly, then rapidly as the fire hits the central fuel tank. Ashes eyes glow with the flames. There are many sailors who barely escape with their lives who spend the rest of their time in this world going pale whenever someone hums a jaunty few bars then starts singing about drunk space pirates.)

(Others find themselves at gunpoint, handing credits over for plastic boxes which apparently contain some form of musical recording. The boxes are red. They are also red. They are redder when Brian picks them back up again, pocketing the sales money. He sells almost a hundred CDs to grinning owners. This is exceptionally good work, as he’d only come off the ship with five.)

(There is a quiet break in the gunfire at one point. Someone whispers across no-pirate’s-land at the glass-eyed, grinning gunner who a moment ago had been singing as he sprayed plasma across the hallways. “Err how did you get the robot outa the sun, actually?”

“Running bet with Ashes. _They’ve_ got two planets. I only had a moon. And _I’m_ the Gunner – they needed taking down a notch.”

“Two planets? A moon? What’s that mean?”

There is only the sound of burning plasma.)

**Author's Note:**

> The story part of this is actually part of a longer story that goes a bit AU afterwards, so figured that as it was finished and it would be good to have a totally canon compliant version available, I should chuck it up with a couple of little extra bits. This was also a bit of a red-string exercise (there is at least one reference I am absolutely cackling about in there), if you want to geek out about things you spot in there, please do, I'd love to geek out with you!


End file.
